Seabert Felonwort had been dreaming about pigeons all night. As he lied down on a rough straw mattress with his eyes closed, listening to the cooing and rustling of feathers, he gradually became aware that he was not dreaming anymore. He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on a droppings-splattered stone roof of a tall building with a magnificent view to an ancient, ruined city below. He tried to remember his dream but it was fading quickly. All he could remember were the pigeons settling around him and climbing on him, staring at him with their small amazed eyes. He remembered how the pigeons had smothered and drowned him in his dream.
It was morning now, but the same cooing and rustling still filled Felonwort’s ears. He turned around and looked at the old man’s dovecotes on the roof. It was a great spot for a permanent camp for anyone who wanted to keep an eye on the ruins below. There was a great view over the ruined city and the collapsed stone bridge crossing the river. From the street level it would have been very difficult for anyone to spot him up on the roof as long as he stayed low and did not make much noise.
It was early spring, and the air was chilly. Felonwort was sweating all the same.
He rolled over and opened the bag he had been using as a pillow. Felonwort dug out his pipe and a pouch which contained the remains of his pipe-weed – dank and moldy Southlinch brand that had been nothing to write home about even before it had gotten wet, but beggars cannot be choosers. Felonwort wondered if there was any good pipe-weed in Gondor as he tamped it into his pipe, lit it and blew smoke over the ruined city.
Felonwort’s body was small but powerful and his hair was black, short and spiky. There was a long, livid scar going from the left side of his mouth to his ear – a small memento from the boys of the Beggar’s Alley who had wanted to give him the old ’Scarecrow Grin’ for sleeping with the girl Coddle had been sweet on at the time, almost ten years ago now. Coddle had been a big man in Bree, but even Coddle had met his untimely death about a year and a half ago. Felonwort had heard that somebody had opened Coddle up from throat to bellybutton after pouring boiling water over him. The news had warmed Felonwort’s heart when he had first heard about it. Could not have happened to a nicer fellow. Felonwort grinned and realized that the news still warmed him, after all this time. Maybe there was some justice in the world after all.
It had taken Felonwort twenty-one days to reach this ruined city since he had stolen the encrypted letter from Reed. He had no idea where he was going, but one thing was sure: he could never go back to Bree. The Rangers were on his trail now, he was sure of it. Not all of them of course, but the thought of Beriador sent cold shivers down his spine. Beriador was crazy as a bat. Beriador would not settle on just slicing his face up a little bit.
Gondor.
Felonwort was a fairly well-traveled man for a man of Bree – he had lived in Tinnudir on the shores of Lake Evendim for the past few years after all – but he had very little knowledge about what Gondor was and where it was. He knew it was in the south, and reckoned that if he rode down the Greenway far enough he would find Gondor eventually. He had heard stories about streets paved with gold, towers so high that they touched the sky, exotic and succulent wenches and cities full of wonders and riches, and while Felonwort was smart enough to understand that at least some of those stories were probably just a little bit embellished, he was sure Gondor would beat crummy old Bree any day, not to mention Tinnudir Keep, that ugly, dilapidated piece of a rock.
Felonwort took another puff from his pipe and let the smoke trail out of his nostrils as he closed his eyes, trying to picture the fabled Kingdom of Gondor in his mind. It would be warm there, there would be sunny beaches and the sea. Felonwort wanted to see the sea. He wanted to be warm. He never wanted to be cold again.
After twenty-one days of riding through the desolate wilderness and the ancient, overgrown road Felonwort had finally reached this ruined city three days ago. He had not seen a single person during those weeks, no villages or settlements of any kind. He had ran out of his rations after the first week. There had been plenty of game but not much edible fruits or berries this early in the spring, and Felonwort, who was not much of a woodsman, had starved and lost a lot of weight. He had been so weak and dizzy from hunger that it had taken all his strength and concentration just to stay on the saddle as he had slowly ridden through the dilapidated ruins, so he had not seen the old man before he was standing no more than thirty feet from Felonwort, keeping his bow aimed at him.
Had the old man been a brigand, Felonwort’s journey would have likely ended there. But his legendary good luck had not abandoned Felonwort yet. The old man had asked what Felonwort’s business in Tharbad was – that’s what the old man called the ruined city, Tharbad – where he was going and why. When Felonwort had answered, truthfully, that he was going to Gondor to sell them secrets he thought might be of interest to them, the old man had become interested too. The old man had helped Felonwort off his saddle and taken him to his permanent camp on a roof of a tall building near the crumbled bridge.
That night they had talked for a long time. The old man introduced himself as Faragadir, a man of Gondor. Faragadir had roasted venison on a campfire and Felonwort had eaten his first proper meal in weeks. Felonwort had told Faragadir about Reed, the mysterious stranger in Tinnudir the Ranger Lhaindir had thought was a spy from Mordor. Lhaindir had assigned Felonwort to befriend Reed and pry into his secrets. Lhaindir had reckoned Felonwort could get Reed to open up to him more easily than to the Rangers, given that they were both outsiders in Tinnudir, Felonwort originally from Bree and Reed allegedly from Ost Forod. And Felonwort had had little choice but to comply, given that he was essentially Lhaindir’s prisoner in Tinnudir. That elderly Ranger had once caught Felonwort robbing travelers near Buckland, and instead of killing him Lhaindir had brought him to Tinnudir to serve the Dúnedain as a punishment for his crimes.
Slowly Felonwort had managed to get Reed to open up to him. When Reed had discovered that Felonwort wanted nothing more badly than to escape from Tinnudir, Reed had told him that he could help Felonwort escape and become a wealthy man if only he helped Reed to get to his final destination. Reed had told him that he was not really from Ost Forod but from Mordor, a land far in the southeast. His destination was a place called Emyn Beraid, the Tower Hills, but he needed someone to take him there because he did not know where it was.
Felonwort had told everything Reed had said to him to Lhaindir. As Felonwort had not managed to make Reed explain what he wanted to do in Emyn Beraid, Lhaindir had come up with a plan and invited another Ranger, Beriador, in on their little conspiracy to reveal Sauron’s secret plot. Felonwort did not know where or what Emyn Beraid was either, but the Rangers did and Lhaindir had given him a map.
The plan was simple enough. Felonwort was to help Reed ’escape’ Tinnudir one night and escort him to the Tower Hills, while Beriador followed on their trail from a safe distance. They would allow Reed to get where he was going to see what the plan was and only intervene in the last minute, if any intervention was even necessary. Lhaindir could not understand how Reed even imagined to get past the elven guards once he had reached the towers.
The ’escape’ had been easy to pull off. The journey from Tinnudir to Emyn Beraid was long, and in the evenings Reed had opened up to him a little more. Reed had told Felonwort that his mission was to get inside a tower in Emyn Beraid and get his hands on some kind of a magical crystal ball that the elves kept there. Then he would be able to communicate with Sauron directly, and the latter part of his mission would be revealed to him. Reed also told Felonwort that he carried in his bag an encrypted letter from his masters in Mordor, a letter which contained his detailed mission instructions.
Felonwort had heard enough. He knew that Beriador would intervene and prevent Reed from completing his mission in Emyn Beraid, but Felonwort had no intention of going that far himself. He had a better idea of ridding himself of the Dúnedain. One night, when Reed was sleeping soundly, Felonwort stole the letter from his bag, took his horse and rode east, towards the Shire and the Greenway. He wanted to get as much miles as possible between himself and Beriador before the Ranger caught up with Reed and realized Felonwort’s betrayal.
Felonwort told some of this to Faragadir but kept many details to himself as well. It was best not to give up everything right away if he wanted to negotiate a new home in Gondor, perhaps a little nest egg too so he would not have to starve or beg for food. But he had given the encrypted letter to Faragadir, who had scribbled down a report of everything Felonwort had told him, attached both the report and the encrypted letter to a leg of one of his pigeons and released the bird up into the sky.
After Faragadir had realized that he would not get anything more out of Felonwort he had soon gotten bored of his company. Faragadir had told Felonwort to stay put and not go wandering far while they waited for a reply from Minas Tirith, a reply which should arrive in a few days if all went well. If his masters in Minas Tirith were interested in Felonwort’s information, Faragadir would then escort him to the capital. After that Faragadir had left Felonwort to his own company, making only brief visits to the camp once or twice a day to feed the pigeons and bring Felonwort more food he had hunted or foraged nearby.
And now it was the morning of the third day Felonwort had spent there waiting. He put away his pipe, stood up and stared at the crumbled stone bridge over the big river. He longed for a bath and some clean clothes.
Beriador, Felonwort thought suddenly and felt a shiver go down his spine as he saw the small, expressionless eyes of the eccentric Dúnadan in his mind. Beriador was strange and maybe even a tad insane. That had been the shared opinion of every other Ranger in Tinnudir. Beriador had always scared Felonwort. He wondered if Beriador had decided to go after him after he had found out Felonwort's betrayal. If he had, it would not be long now before he arrived here in Tharbad, what with all the days he had already wasted here lying and waiting for a reply from Minas Tirith.
He wondered if he should have warned Faragadir about Beriador.
